


A Toast to Innocence

by bergamot



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Constructive Criticism Welcome, F/M, JBHolidaze, One Shot, Prompt Fill, Romance, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 02:28:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5479880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bergamot/pseuds/bergamot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A chance meeting on New Year’s Eve brings Brienne back into Jaime’s life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Toast to Innocence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [radiofreeamy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiofreeamy/gifts).



> Radiofreeamy posted a fic prompt over on JB Online, and I couldn't resist. (Really, I vomited this up at 2 AM last night with zero self-control.) 
> 
> This fic is inspired by Dan Fogelberg's "Same Old Lang Syne." I hope it does the song, and the prompt, justice :)
> 
> P.S. - Prepare for angst.

It was almost midnight on New Year’s Eve, and Tyrion had run out of champagne. He sent Jaime out to fetch another bottle—or ten—from the corner store down the street.

“Don’t worry, brother, they’re always open,” Tyrion insisted, shoving Jaime’s coat at him while a group of women cheered at a television in the living room. Tyrion glanced over his shoulder and then pushed Jaime toward the door. “Hurry man!”

Jaime went gladly. He had no interest in the women Tyrion had invited over—a group of models from a recent photo shoot that Jaime had art directed for their father’s magazine. Tyrion always took advantage when Jaime was doing a photo shoot in town. Normally, Jaime didn’t begrudge him. Tyrion took far more pleasure in the perks of Jaime’s job than Jaime ever did.

For once, though, he wished that Tyrion had been drinking alone. Jaime hated New Year’s Eve and everything it stood for: the hope, the relentless optimism, the insistence that “auld acquaintance be forgot.” Or was it _not_ be forgot? Did anyone know the lyrics to that song? Either way, Jaime didn’t care. He’d wanted a stiff drink and his brother’s caustic humor tonight. Not a room full of women who were willing to overlook his amputated hand and his brother’s short stature in favor of their famous family name.

Jaime punched the elevator button until the doors sprang open with a harried _bing_. He tapped his toe on the floor of the elevator the entire ride down and marched across the marble lobby, ignoring the doorman’s cheerful greeting.

It was snowing outside. The kind of snow that came down heavy and wet. More slush than snow, really. The street outside Tyrion’s building was grey slop. Jaime pulled his wool coat over his head and dashed for the corner store, his feet sending up a spray of slush with every step. By the time he reached the store, his leather loafers were soaked through.

Tyrion lived in an affluent part of town, the best that Lannister money could buy. In any other neighborhood, a twenty-four-hour corner store would be a sad, cramped affair selling cigarettes, soda and cheap liquor. In Tyrion’s neighborhood, it was a high-end grocery store with bright lighting and expensive goods. Jaime tramped past a tasteful display of fresh flowers and down an aisle. He shook the sleet from his coat, not caring that he’d sprayed a display of holiday tea with water.

The liquor was kept in the back corner of the grocery store. It was a massive section broken up by white wine, red wine, hard liquor and artisan beer. There was a selection of chilled bottles along one wall. Jaime ducked his head down, ignoring a group of merrymakers who were debating the merits of sherry versus brandy in the aisle over. Jaime snorted. _Amateurs._

He studied the bottles, scanning the chilled whites and sparkling rosés until he found the row of champagne. He selected a single bottle, expensive and of an excellent vintage. He had no intention of sharing this one with Tyrion’s gaggle of women. He would drink it out on the balcony in the snow, alone. Screw Tyrion and screw New Year’s Eve.

The group of merrymakers by the brandy fell silent when Jaime passed them in the aisle. He gave them a cool look, aware that his hair was stringy and wet and his beard was overgrown. He clutched the champagne in the crook of his right arm and narrowed his eyes when one of the men in the group glanced at his scarred wrist. He was well past caring what other people thought of him, but he still liked to make them flinch.  

Jaime was half-way to the registers when a figure standing in front of the dairy case caught his eye. He stopped abruptly, almost dropping the bottle of champagne. She was tall and strapping, with close-cropped blonde hair—shorter than he remembered. She wore an eye-catching red pea coat over dark grey sweats. The color caught him off guard; she always used to try to blend in.

Jaime made his way toward her in a kind of daze. She was concentrating on a selection of yogurts and didn’t seem to notice him, even when he was only a few feet away. Jaime touched her sleeve with his left hand, and she jumped.

“Brienne Tarth,” he said. Her name was like a fresh, summer breeze.

Brienne stared at him. She looked older. The freckles on her crooked nose were more pronounced, her skin not quite as dewy as he remembered it. She’d been twenty when last he’d seen her. He had been the TA in one of her photography classes at university. They’d argued for half a semester before bonding grudgingly over her brilliant final project.

It was the same year that he eschewed his father’s money and everything that went with it. He’d abandoned the graduate program and run off to Essos to pursue a career in photo journalism. He’d thought about asking Brienne to go with him. But they’d never addressed the tension that stretched between them. And Jaime, fresh out of a toxic relationship with his stepsister Cersei, hadn’t been sane enough to try. Brienne had driven him to the airport with promises to call and write. He’d sent her a postcard once, but it was Cersei who still consumed him, and Brienne had never written back.

Now here she was before him. Looking at him as if she had no idea who he was.

“Brienne,” he said again. He pressed his hand to his chest, feeling like an utter fool. “Jaime Lannister.”

“J—Jaime?” Brienne flushed a deep, blotchy red. Her eyes flicked to his stump and her shopping basket crashed to the floor.

The contents of Brienne’s basket rolled across the aisle. She lunged after a jar of peanut butter while Jaime chased a bottle of hot sauce. A bag of brown rice had split, and the grains crunched and crackled under his shoes. Jaime returned the hot sauce and a box of pasta to her basket and then turned to search for more. Brienne was still crouched on the ground, clutching the peanut butter in one hand. Her arms were folded around her legs, and she was sobbing into the crook of her elbow.

Jaime set down the bottle of champagne and knelt in front of her. He wanted to put his hand on her shoulder or brush the hair from her forehead, but he dared not touch her. His fingers twitched.

“Brienne?”

She sobbed harder and twisted away from him, placing her free hand on the ground beside her for balance. Gingerly, Jaime removed the jar of peanut butter from her other hand and placed it back into her basket. He gathered up the other items around them and then brushed the rice against the wall with his foot. By the time he had finished, Brienne was standing, brushing at her face with her fingertips. Jaime picked up his bottle of champagne, not know whether he should stay or go.

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said finally, her voice ragged and raw. “I just—I didn’t—” She looked up at him with a sad, watery smile. “You were a welcome surprise, that’s all.”

Jaime rolled the bottle of champagne in his hand, unsure of how to respond. Brienne brushed rice from her palm and looked around, anywhere but at him. The silence that stretched between them was agony. Jaime waved the bottle at the front of the store.

“Are you ready to—”

“How have you—”

They stared at each other. He waited for Brienne to finish her question, but she bit her lip instead. He smiled at the familiar gesture.

“I’m sorry,” Brienne said again. She gestured at the champagne. “You obviously have somewhere to be.”

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Nowhere important.”

Brienne glanced at the line of yogurt on the wall. “I was just finishing up here. I—I should be getting home.”

A million questions zipped through Jaime’s mind, but he only asked, “Can I walk you to the register?”

Brienne hesitated and then nodded. She turned and grabbed two yogurts from the shelf behind them. Jaime followed her down the bread aisle and toward the front of the store. He traced the sharp line of her broad shoulders with his eyes. He remembered her walk—somehow powerful and timid at once. She had always been awkward. It was one of the first things he’d noticed about her, and one of the first things he’d tormented her over. But now he was distinctly aware that _he_ was the cause of it.

What happened to them? Why had she never written back to him all those years ago? Why— He shook his head. No, he didn’t want to think about it. She was here now. What did it matter?

Brienne stopped at the only open register. There was no one else in line, and she waved him in front of her. “You only have one item,” she muttered.

“Still the chivalrous knight, I see,” Jaime teased, attempting a grin as he set his bottle of champagne on the conveyor belt.

Brienne stared at him a second too long before glaring and snapping a plastic divider onto the belt behind his champagne. “Still the unmitigated ass, I see,” Brienne replied.

Jaime couldn’t help winking at her. She rolled her eyes in response, and the expression sent a shiver down his spine. So _that_ hadn’t changed.

The cashier rang him up and wrapped the champagne bottle in a paper bag. Jaime stood to the side while Brienne paid and helped the cashier bag her groceries. When she had finished, she wished the man a happy new year and turned to Jaime.

“Are you still taking pictures?” She asked, clearly searching for a safe topic for conversation.

They walked together past the flower display toward the entrance. Jaime held open the door for her. It was still snowing, the flakes coming down as thick and fluffy as feathers exploding from a pillow.

“Art director,” Jaime said, shaking his head ruefully, “for my father.”

Brienne nodded. If she was disappointed in him, she didn’t show it. If she wanted to know what happened to his career in photo journalism, she didn’t ask.

“I’m a graphic designer now,” she offered, sliding her eyes toward him. “Freelance.”

Jaime bit the inside of his cheek. He didn’t want to make small talk with her. He flexed his fingers around the neck of the champagne bottle, the paper bag crunching in his fist. They watched the snow in awkward silence.

After a moment, Brienne asked, “Are you parked nearby?”

Jaime gestured with the bottle. “Tyrion’s place is just up the street.”

She smiled. “I’ve missed him. How is he?”

“The same,” Jaime replied, grinning. “Women, booze, scheming. You know Tyrion—he’s only happy when he’s disappointing Father.”

Brienne looked as if she wanted to say more. Instead, she stepped out into the snow and tilted her face up. Snowflakes caught on her eyelashes and balanced on her nose. She blew a sigh out of her mouth and sent them flying. When she looked back at him, her eyes were guarded.

“And the rest of your family?” She asked.

Jaime knew she was talking about his stepsister. Of course she was. He’d been obsessed with Cersei the entire time she’d known him. It had never been any other way. Jaime gritted his teeth against the sudden pang of bitterness. He shrugged. “We don’t talk.”

She pressed her lips into a thin line. “Would you like a ride to Tyrion’s?”

Jaime wanted nothing more than to spend the rest of his life standing here, watching her in the snow. He wanted to bask in her presence and soak up the fact that she was solid and real. But he couldn’t say that to Brienne. She was as skittish as a foal at the best of times. Instead, he held up the bottle of champagne, hoping he didn’t sound as desperate as he felt.

“It’s almost midnight,” he said, “and I was planning on drinking this alone. Care to join me in a toast for the new year?”

Brienne glanced at the bottle and then out at the empty street. He could see her battle with herself. They’d gotten drunk together several times during university. Once at a frat party that ended with Jaime’s fist in another man’s face. Again at Tyrion and Jaime’s flat while Tyrion had been away at a debate tournament. Jaime wondered if Brienne remembered either of those instances. They hadn’t ended well, per se, but they hadn’t ended bad, either.

She surprised him with a quick nod toward a silver sedan parked on the curb. “Let’s at least get out of the snow,” she suggested.

Jaime tried not to smile in relief. He followed her to her car, pausing to remove the gold foil from the lip of the champagne while she loaded her groceries into the trunk. Brienne held her hand out for the bottle, and Jaime passed it to her. He tucked the foil and wire into his pocket, along with the crumpled paper bag. Brienne tucked the bottle under one corner of her pea coat and twisted her hands. The cork came out with a muffled _pop._  She thrust the bottle away from her, laughing at the stream of bubbles that gushed from the top.

Jaime bit back his grin, wondering what had happened to the stolid girl he knew back in college. That Brienne would have never stood in the snow on New Year’s Eve, popping champagne where a cop could catch her. This Brienne tossed a proud look Jaime’s direction and then pulled open her car door, the bottle of champagne perched in one hand. Jaime opened the passenger door and climbed in.

Her car smelled musky and feminine, as if Brienne had worn perfume earlier that day. It occurred to Jaime that although he was alone, she may not be. The thought of her with a husband—kids, even—made his stomach drop. He looked at her hands, but they were fumbling with the bottle and a set of keys. She shoved the keys in the ignition and turned on the car. The engine purred to life, and Brienne flipped a dial on the dashboard. A blast of icy air hit them both in the face.

Brienne grimaced and fiddled with the dial. “Sorry, it’ll warm up in just a minute.”

Jaime nodded. “Nice car,” he said, mentally kicking himself. It would be too obvious if he lurched across the center armrest to scrutinize her left hand.

Brienne looked at him with an odd expression, her head tilted to one side. “Thanks?”

He cleared his throat. “What should we toast to?”

Brienne passed him the bottle. “It’s your champagne,” she said. “You decide.”

The fingers on her left hand were freckled and bare. Jaime felt a surge of hope sweep through him. Pathetic. He raised the bottle toward her. “To now,” he said. “To this.”

He took a swig of the champagne, forgetting that the bubbles would be sharp and dry on his tongue. He coughed and passed the bottle back to her. Brienne flicked the windshield wipers once to clear a layer of snow from the window. The flakes were lighter and the street lights shone blurry and golden through the windshield.

“To now,” she repeated. “To this.”

She looked at him as she lifted the lip of the bottle to her mouth. Jaime watched her throat flex as she took a sip. The thrum of attraction beat an erratic tattoo in his chest.

“Are you married?” He blurted.

Brienne coughed and lowered the bottle. She swiped her hand across her mouth. A flush swept up her neck and across her cheeks. She thrust the champagne back at him. “No, are you?”

Jaime shook his head and took another drink, his eyes never leaving hers. She watched him for a moment and then looked away.

“I live with someone though,” she said. “He’s an architect.”

“What’s his name?” Jaime’s voice was strained.

“Hyle,” she whispered.

Jaime took another gulp of champagne, this time welcoming the sting of the alcohol on his tongue. He held the bottle out to her and she took it, her fingers brushing his. He couldn’t look at her. “Do you love him?”

The windshield wipers swept across the window again, revealing a world of white outside. Snowflakes hit the glass and melted on impact. The heater was blasting warm air now. Jaime felt hot in his wool coat. His shoes were still damp.

Brienne lifted the bottle to her lips. “No.”

Jaime’s eyes snapped to hers and she took another swig. He wanted to pull the bottle away and replace it with his mouth.

“When we were still…” Brienne murmured, “When you left…”

“I wanted to ask you to come with me,” he growled, “but I was a fucking fool.”

Brienne looked out the window. She took a deep breath and gazed back at him. Her eyes were wide and dark. He knew the color of them so well, had memorized them all those years ago. Blue like the summer sky and edged in a ring of navy. Her eyes made his head spin.

“I would have said yes if you had,” she whispered.

Jaime pulled the champagne from her grip and dropped it on the floor at his feet. The bottle knocked against the door and tipped, champagne running over his shoes and along the floorboards. Jaime didn’t care—not for his shoes, not for her car. He pushed himself over the armrest, his good hand coming up to brush her cheek and curl around the back of her neck. Brienne leaned toward him and met his mouth eagerly.

She moaned when his tongue touched hers, and Jaime fisted his hand in her hair. Her hands were on his collar, and she pulled him to her, closer, as close as he could get. His elbow bumped into the steering wheel, and his knee hit the gear stick. He pressed his stump into her thigh, stroking her leg as he kissed her. Brienne broke away, panting. Her eyes searched his face, and Jaime prayed to the gods that she found what she was looking for there. He ran his fingertips along her jaw and over her swollen lips. Their warm breath mingled in the small space between them.

“I waited for you,” she murmured, stroking the sides of his face. “I waited for you to come back, but you never wrote to me again. You never called. I—I didn’t know what happened to you. I thought you—”

Jaime leaned forward and kissed her. She pulled away. “I thought you forgot about me.”

“Never,” he replied. “I couldn’t. You were in my mind all the time, Brienne.”

She dug her hands into his hair and pulled him to her. She was sweet and soft and then hard and frenzied. He wanted her so badly. _Needed_ her.

“I’m sorry,” he said between kisses, “I was such a fucking fool.”

“We were just kids,” she said into his mouth.

“I was old enough.”

“I wasn’t. I didn’t know I’d never see you again.”

“I’m here now.” He pushed his lips to hers. She sighed against him, and he drew her closer.  In another breath, she pulled away. She pressed her forehead to his. He closed his eyes.

“What are we doing?” She whispered.

“Making this right,” Jaime replied. He felt her shake her head ‘no.’

“You know it’s not as easy as that.” She pulled back, both her hands on his cheeks. He wanted to kiss her again, but her expression was so sad that he couldn’t close the distance between them. “Not for me, at least.”

This was not happening. They had found each other. By some dumb luck or divine intervention, he had found her. He didn’t even know that she was who he’d been searching for.

She traced his right eyebrow with her fingertip. “We’re strangers, Jaime.”

“No,” he choked. “Brienne, you know me.”

There were tears in her eyes. Her astonishing eyes. They were the color of the ocean, the color of sorrow. “I’m sorry, Jaime. I’m so sorry, but I—I can’t.”

He whispered ‘no’ and brushed his fingers through the wetness on her cheeks. She released his face and turned away from him. She pressed her hands into the steering wheel, her knuckles white with the force of her grip. She was letting him go.

Jaime fell back against the door, his hand shaking. The windshield wiper _whooshed_ across the window. Outside, the snow had turned to slushy rain.

“I’ll drive you back to Tyrion’s,” Brienne told the steering wheel. “It’s the—the least I can do.”

Jaime shook his head. “I’ll walk.”

“Jaime,” she pleaded, already shifting the car into gear, “let me drive you.”

He watched helplessly as she pulled away from the curb and maneuvered the car into the street. She drove slowly, and he wondered if she was drunk. But they had only shared two sips, he realized. The rest of the champagne was a puddle beneath his feet.

In no time at all, he was pointing to a blue awning that stretched out to the curb. Brienne pulled the car up to the front of Tyrion’s building. She kept her eyes on the steering wheel. Jaime wanted her to look at him just one more time. They couldn’t part like this. As if nothing had happened.

He reached out and brushed her arm with his fingers. She closed her eyes.

“I have to go,” she muttered. “Hyle will be worried about me.”

Jaime knew that Tyrion would be wondering the same thing. His phone had been buzzing on and off in his pocket for the last fifteen minutes. But he refused to let her go so easily.

“Why are you with him if you don’t love him, Brienne?”

She jumped at his words, jerking away as if he’d struck her. Her chin trembled. She pressed her lips together, and a muscle in her jaw tensed. When she finally looked at him, she was glaring.

“Just go, Jaime,” she grunted. “You wouldn’t understand.”

“I might if you would just—”

“Go!” She commanded, her voice an angry howl. Tears coursed down her face.

He had never seen Brienne cry before tonight. His chest felt tight—he’d done that to her. He’d made her feel that way. He remembered the day he’d said goodbye to her at the airport. The way she looked when he left her in the terminal. His chest had constricted then, too.

Jaime tugged the door handle and pushed the door open. Rain hammered on the roof of her car as he stepped out. He gripped the corner of the car door with his hand, leaning down so she would hear him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Brienne,” he told her. “I’ll be right here. Waiting for you.”

The door slipped from his grasp and clicked shut. She was already pulling out into the street. Jaime strode after her, stepping off the curb and into rain. He watched her taillights speed away from him, his breath trapped in his throat. Icy water streamed into his eyes and down the nape of his neck. It blurred the street lights and the buildings that lined the road. 

Tires screeched against wet pavement. Jaime lifted his head. Brienne's car jerked to a stop. It idled in the street for several seconds and the reverse lights flickered on.  

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
